


A Shot in The Dark

by mirajanihiggins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF John, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Gunshot Wounds, Hospitalization, Hurt John Watson, Hurt Sherlock, M/M, Revenge, fake moriarty, soft sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-07 00:11:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11047236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirajanihiggins/pseuds/mirajanihiggins
Summary: Mary is gone, John and Sherlock are together...things seem ideal until they find out there's a new Moriarty in town...





	A Shot in The Dark

It was damp and cold outside, but that was hardly unusual this time of year. Sherlock hurried through the misting rain, his intention clear—return to Baker Street as soon as possible and get out of these wet clothes. The errand complete, it was now time to dry off, get a nice hot cup of tea, and settle in for the evening.

 

He found John leaning against the front left window pane when he entered the room. The drizzling rain, combined with the light from the streetlamp outside, painted his face and form with uneven streaks of grays, making him look like he was part of an impressionist painting. His frown was unusually pensive, which made Sherlock curious. He couldn’t imagine what John could possibly be thinking, and he _hated_ that. It had made it his mission in life to discover everything he possibly could about military doctor John H. Watson.

 

A few long-legged strides across the room--to which John failed to respond--and Sherlock was standing behind him, towering over him. Not that John was actually that much shorter than Sherlock, but he seemed smaller than usual today, almost fragile. Sherlock stepped up close and wrapped his long, spidery arms around his husband’s shoulders, slowly pulling him away from the window casement. He rested his chin on John’s head, tightening his arms as he did so, and felt John’s hands reach up and caress his forearms.

 

“No need to be a git about the height thing, you know,” John murmured, absently but fondly.

 

A smile quirked at one corner of Sherlock’s full, almost feminine, lips as he moved his chin and kissed the back of John’s head. “You know better than that, John. I do it because I can, not to annoy you. It makes me feel almost like I am…wrapping myself around you, protecting you from whatever might come.” Another kiss, with a nuzzle thrown in for good measure. “Now, my dearest husband, tell me why you’ve been standing here staring into nothing for so long. You know that’s normally _my_ job.”

 

He heard John chuckle gently before answering. “I know, love. I’ve just been feeling…uncomfortable lately, sort of jumpy, like I’m waiting for something to happen but it never does.”

 

Sherlock frowned in concern. “Unlike you, John. You’re usually the calm, centered one. Maybe I’m rubbing off on you, but not in a good way.”

 

“Oh, you mean like last night?” John retorted, a hint of  laughter in his voice.

 

“What? No, you idiot. Get your mind out of the gutter. I swear to God, John, you are sex-obsessed…”

 

“And who made me that way, Sherlock?” The laughter was fully evident now.

 

“Not I, you hedonist. When I first met you, you were trying to shag anything with two X chromosomes, and one or two with a Y. Don’t lay your proclivities on _my_ doorstep.”

 

John’s head turned slightly to address his husband more directly. “Now, Sherlock, I was only chasing them because you had shot me down on our first date…”

 

“Which you kept denying was a date…”

 

“Well, it could have been if you hadn’t claimed to be ‘married to your work’…”

 

“And if you hadn’t been denying your bisexual tendencies at the speed of sound…”

 

They both broke into laughter, Sherlock’s facetious banter effectively breaking John’s dour mood. Sherlock bent his head down and rubbed the side of his face against John’s cheek, their five o’clock shadows making a vague scratching sound as they brushed past each other. A quick kiss and Sherlock, in an impetuous moment, squeezed his arms tighter around John’s upper arms and torso and, straightening up suddenly, yanked John off his feet, bending him back slightly, in an unexpectedly exuberant gesture.

 

John laughed. “Hey! Put me down, you…”

 

He never got to finish. The sharp sound of glass cracking was followed quickly by a jolt through John’s body, accompanied by a sudden impact that took Sherlock’s breath away. He gently set John on his feet again, only to realize that something was terribly wrong. John whispered, “ _Sher_ -“ just before his knees crumpled and he slid down Sherlock’s body, Sherlock’s embrace being the only thing keeping him upright. A quick glance at the nearby window revealed a perfectly round hole with spider cracks around it.

 

_Gunshot from somewhere across the street. Sniper…_

 

Despite an odd pain in his own side, Sherlock was able to kneel down and gently lower his partner to the floor. He stared down at him in blank surprise, only to behold a spreading dark stain on John’s jumper just above his beltline. A sudden start of panic caused Sherlock to clutch John to his chest. John’s eyes were already closed, his body limp.

 

_Oh, God. Oh, God, what do I do now? I’m not the doctor here, I can’t…_

 

“Oh, yes, you can, Sherlock. Don’t be so melodramatic. I’ve been shot before, remember?”

 

Sherlock’s head snapped upward and turned toward the desk, where MindPalace John leaned nonchalantly, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked magnificent, as opposed to Real John, who looked pale and vulnerable on the floor.

 

“What should I do, John? Tell me, please! Help me save you!” Sherlock pled, all pride set aside.

 

MindPalace John smirked down at him. “Come on, Sherlock, think. Remember Bainbridge? The knife wound in the shower?”

 

Sherlock’s mind raced back to that day, prior to John’s wedding, when the two of them had visited the barracks because of Bainbridge’s concerns that someone might be trying to harm him. Pushing aside the otherwise-delightful memories of a barracks full of soldiers in uniform, Sherlock found the requisite memory.

 

_Bainbridge unconscious on the floor of the shower. John kneeling next to him. Yes, of course…_

 

“Remember what I said, Sherlock? How I instructed you?”

 

He thought hard. Remembered kneeling at the soldier’s side, opposite John. “You told me to take off my scarf and to press it over the wound, hard. To stop the bleeding.” His mouth twisted the tiniest bit. “You called me ‘ _nurse’_ ”

 

MindPalace John rolled his eyes in thinly-veiled annoyance. “Oh, for God’s sake, Sherlock, get over it. _Focus_. Find some fabric and press it over the wound, just like you did then. Call 999 before I go into shock. If you do that, I have a chance. You muck around, you can plan my funeral and I _will_ come back to haunt you, I swear to God, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock cast around, looking for something with which to staunch the bleeding. He spied a cloth napkin that had fallen from his chairside table and gotten hung up on the rungs at the bottom. Snatching it away from its resting place, he balled it up and placed it over the entrance wound on John’s abdomen, pressing downward with his left hand. The slightest moan was his reward, a sign that John was still reachable on some level, responding to deep pain. With his right hand, he dialed 999 on his mobile.

 

“Emergency Services. Please state your name, address, and your emergency,” came the nasal, Cockney voice of the operator.

 

“Sherlock Holmes, 221B Baker Street, and there has been a gunshot wound inflicted. I need an ambulance and Detective Inspector Lestrade at this address immediately,” Sherlock rapped out, surprised at his own composure now that MindPalace John was with him. He looked up to see him still leaning there, smiling and nodding in approval.

 

“Good job, love. Good job,” he said, with pride.

 

A few minutes later the flat was awash in emergency lights and full of paramedics and police officers. Sherlock hadn’t noticed he had started to shiver until then. A paramedic draped an orange blanket around his shoulders and led him to a chair. A familiar figure walked over to Sherlock, knelt down, and placed a companionable hand on his shoulder. “Hey, Sherlock, you okay?”

 

Sherlock started fingering the scratchy blanket absently while staring at the stretcher, where his husband of only a few months was being tended to. “Why do they keep putting this damned blanket on me?” he muttered to no one in particular.

 

DI Lestrade, one of Sherlock’s few real friends, nodded quietly, not bothering to respond. It wouldn’t have done any good—Sherlock’s mind was not registering anything that didn’t have to do with John. Lestrade gave him a little shake until Sherlock’s gaze turned to him, his face blank except for a touch of surprise. “Gavin? When did you get here?”

 

“Been here awhile, Sherlock, you just didn’t notice. And it’s _still_ Greg. So, now that I have your attention, tell me what happened. You two didn’t have a domestic, did you?” he asked, gently but with suspicion.

 

THAT was the wrong thing to say at that moment. Sherlock stiffened and glared at Greg with an indignation that was harrowing to behold. “A _domestic_? You think that _I_ shot him? That I could _ever_ harm him _in any way_ …” He threw off the blanket and started rising to his feet in anger when Greg placed both hands on his shoulders and shoved him back down into his chair. It took a surprising amount of strength to do so. Sherlock was a lot stronger than he looked, his wiry frame seeming to be made of high-impact plastic and piano wire. His gaze was volcanic, his face twisted in anger.

 

Greg attempted to calm his friend. “Sherlock, take it easy. I gotta ask these questions, okay? I know you would never hurt John, but you _do_ keep an unregistered firearm in this apartment and you both have your moments, so…I had to ask, okay?” He lightly shook Sherlock, hands still resting on the younger man’s bony shoulders.

 

The rigidity in Sherlock’s frame seemed to slowly diminish as the moment passed, his head drooping and shoulders bowing as the adrenaline needed to save his husband drained away. Without raising his head, he said, “Tell me he’s going to be all right, Greg.” His voice was lifeless, barely a whisper.

 

Lestrade gestured to one of the paramedics and, leaning aside, asked him a few key questions. The paramedic responded in a low voice as the stretcher was being moved for transport to St. Barts. The exchange only took about a minute or so, then the paramedic returned to gathering up his gear.

 

Greg touched Sherlock’s forearm and said, “I think we’d better get to the hospital, Sherlock. I can get a statement from you there.”

 

Sherlock nodded numbly. He stood up, blanket still partially draped around his spare body, and staggered, falling back into the chair. When the blanket fell fully away, Greg could see a splotch of blood on Sherlock’s side, slightly higher than John’s wound.

 

“Jesus, Sherlock! You’ve been shot!”

 

Sherlock blankly regarded the stain, which had increased in size when he stood. “No,” he mumbled. “That’s John’s blood.”

 

Greg swore. “The _hell_ it is! Get those paramedics back up here now and call another ambulance! _”_ he bellowed as Sherlock slouched down into the chair and passed out.

 

>>>***<<<

 

Sherlock’s wound turned out to be largely superficial, requiring stitches through the skin and muscles, but did result in a loss of blood that Sherlock, in his shocky state, could ill afford to lose. Lestrade swore again and shook his head in disbelief as he looked down at the sleeping form of the Only Consulting Detective in the World.

 

  _Idiot_. An incredible, wonderfully brilliant idiot.

 

He had totally disregarded what had to have been a very painful rib wound in order to help his husband. And help him he did. Lestrade had no idea how Sherlock had known to apply pressure to the abdominal wound in John Watson’s body, but he had, undoubtedly, saved his life.

 

The surgeon had told Lestrade that the bullet that had passed through John had come dangerously close to a number of major blood vessels, actually nicking the descending aorta in one spot, resulting in a gradual, but still potentially lethal, bleed into his body cavity. He had been able to stitch John up quickly, throwing in a couple of pints of blood to replace what had been lost. The former medical doctor was currently resting comfortably in recovery. All in all, a good job all around.

 

Now, as Lestrade sat down next to Sherlock’s bed, he couldn’t help but notice how slender and frail Sherlock looked when his indomitable will and massive intellect were no longer online. _Just a beanpole, really. Hard to believe this man is the terror of Scotland Yard. Looks like the child he acts like sometimes_. It was something of a shock to the tough-minded detective inspector who had, so often, been on the receiving end of Sherlock’s disparaging comments and angry outbursts. He had to fight back the urge to brush an errant lock of hair away from Sherlock’s eyes.

 

_Sentiment_. He heard that in Sherlock’s voice inside his head. He shook it away. _Damn him, now he’s inside my head_. _Like I need another one of him._

 

A movement behind him caused Lestrade to swing around in his chair. There, standing in the doorway, was one Sgt Sally Donovan, with a strange look on her face as she beheld the sleeping detective. Lestrade motioned her over and she stepped hesitantly into the room and up to the bedside.

 

“Odd, i’n’t it? Seein’ ‘im like this, all injured and vulnerable an’ all. I’m expectin’ ‘im to wake up an’ start bellowin’ ‘bout the room bein’ too cold or the sheets bein’ too white or somethin’. This is just… _creepy_.” She shivered once.

 

Lestrade nodded his head in silent agreement, holding out his hand for the report Sally held at her side. She wordlessly handed it to him, never taking her eyes off Sherlock’s pale, sleeping form. Her nose wrinkled in perplexity. “Looks like a kid, don’t ‘e? Tall, gawky teenager wi’ an attitude a mile wide. Not what I’m used to seein’.”

 

Lestrade nodded again and said, “Don’t worry, I took pictures for the crew back at the station. They always get a bit of a laugh out of seeing Sherlock taken down a peg or two.”

 

Sally’s nose wrinkled even further and her brow joined in. “Yeah, I know. I usedta be one of ‘em, but that was before he and John got married. I mean, ‘e’s mellowed a bit, ‘asn’t ‘e? Even has kinduva sense of humor, if you know where to look.” She huffed a bit of laughter at a thought. “I remember the night I got annoyed wi’ ‘im and called ‘im a freak, like I usually do, an’ John Watson near tore me a new one. Said I had no idea how much that hurt ‘im, that he grew up bein’ laughed at and treated like shite and that ‘e deserved respect for everything ‘e’s gone through to make ‘imself a success.” The wrinkles smoothed away and she actually smiled a bit. “I stopped doin’ it that very night. Started to treat ‘im wi’ a bit more respect an’, sure enough, ‘e responded wi’ more kindness than I’d ever given ‘im credit for before. ‘e actually put ‘is ‘and on my shoulder and patted it when ‘e found out my Gram had died. Said ‘e was sorry for my loss, since she and I ‘ad been so close an’ all.” She cocked her head to one side as she regarded his limp form pensively. ”I never told ‘im ennythin’. ‘e just pulled it outa the air, like ‘e always does. I learned to actually kinda like ‘im that night.”

 

Lestrade sighed through his nose. “Yeah, Sally, he’s a strange one, but he’s a good man. John helped him become one. Before they met, I frankly didn’t expect him to survive another bout with the drugs. Either that, or his recklessness would have killed him. He didn’t really care about living or dying, only the thrill of a new case. John saved him. He admits it. And John admits that, without Sherlock, he probably would have put a bullet in his brain long before now. He said he’d been thinking about it, had actually pulled the gun out a few times, same as he did when Sherlock jumped off St. Barts. The two of them need each other. It’s like they’re two halves that found each other.”

 

“You mean, like Plato’s ‘soulmates’?” Sally inquired, and Lestrade’s head swung around, a surprised look on his face. Sally frowned at him. “What? I read.” She looked back at Sherlock. “Yeah, those two are soulmates. They found each other, made each other better. Good on ‘em, I say.” She nodded once, emphatically, then turned toward the door. “See ya back at the office. Keep in touch.”

 

And then she was gone.

 

Lestrade looked down at the papers in his hand thoughtfully. Damned if Sally wasn’t right.

 

“Soulmates, hmmm?”

 

An unexpected deep voice, slurry with sleep and drugs, surprised Lestrade out of his reverie. He looked up to see Sherlock, eyes half-lidded and face expressionless, gazing at him from a nimbus of dark curls fanned out on the white pillow. Lestrade swallowed.

 

“Yeah. Interesting idea, that. And for it to be coming from Sally…”

 

“Someone tried to kill John. Kill my soulmate,” Sherlock slurred. “Gotta find ‘em, Greg. Gotta stop ‘em from taking another shot. Can’t…” His words trailed off as his eyes drooped closed and his breathing slowed again.

 

“Yeah, mate,” Lestrade agreed. “We gotta find him. We _will_ find him. But we need your brain to do it, so get all the rest you need. When you wake up, we’re going hunting.”

 

>>>***<<<

“How is he, Gregory?”

 

Lestrade turned in his chair to behold one Mycroft Holmes, brother of Sherlock and a major player in the British Government. A soft smile crept onto his face as the impeccably-dressed man approached and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, the other still grasping the handle of his ever-present umbrella. Mycroft favored Lestrade with a smile of his own.

 

“Doing well, I think. He’s still being sedated so that he won’t run off and almost bleed to death like he did that time with Mary. The docs are being careful to keep him in “twilight sleep” rather than full-on unconsciousness, so he doesn’t develop a taste for the stuff, but it’s enough to keep him out most of the time, so he’s healing well. Good thing it was mostly a muscle shot—didn’t penetrate any vital organs. I assume _you_ ordered the sedation?”

 

Mycroft nodded in satisfaction. “Yes. My brother is a rather headstrong person. He will do whatever he thinks is right, even if it kills him.”

 

“Which it almost has, upon occasion,” Lestrade noted.

 

“Hmmmm, yes, I am well aware. I was the one who had to drag him out of Serbia and cut his mission short to protect John Watson from that hellhound he married. It was his own recklessness that put him there. He was beginning to make mistakes because he wanted to come back to John so badly,” Mycroft sniffed in disapproval.

 

Lestrade gently pulled on Mycroft’s sleeve and the taller man, uncharacteristically, knelt down beside his chair at the urging. “C’mon, Myc, cut him a break. He was in love. You can’t blame him for it. You and he are such different people…”

 

Mycroft laid a soft hand on Lestrade’s arm. “I know that, Greg. I taught him self-control and logic, but I couldn’t change his heart. Unfortunately, in his business, as in mine, a heart is a dangerous thing to have. It can be used against you all too easily.” His eyes softened as he took Lestrade’s hand and gently held it to his lips. “That is why we must keep _our_ relationship a secret, much as I would wish it to be otherwise.”

 

“I know, Myc. I wouldn’t want your position to be compromised in any way. It’s best if we continue with me pretending to be Sherlock’s ‘handler’ for you. That way, no one questions it when we’re together.” He winked at Mycroft. “Mum’s the word the whole way.”

 

They leaned together in a chaste kiss before Mycroft rose to his feet. “Please keep me informed about their progress, Greg. I have arranged to have John moved in here. It will keep Sherlock calm to be close to him and monitor his progress himself.”

 

One last smile and he left. Lestrade ran a thumb over the place Mycroft had kissed and a smile quirked at a corner of his mouth. “ _The Iceman”, my arse. No one knows but me, and that means no one will **ever** know…_

 

“So, my broth’r fin’lly got hisself a goldfish,” a familiar voice slurred, and Lestrade jumped. He gawked at Sherlock as the younger man smiled drunkenly, still acting very much like he was about to fall asleep mid-word. “Tol’ him, when I got engaged, he should get hisself a gol’fish.”

 

Lestrade frowned in confusion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Sherlock, and I’m thinking that neither do you.”

 

“Ask ’Myc’,” Sherlock murmured as his eyes slid closed again. “You two ‘ad sex yet? Has The Iceman cometh?” he giggled to himself as he drifted away again.

 

“Aw, shit,” Lestrade muttered to himself. He was never going to hear the end of this.

 

>>>***<<<

 

The next time Sherlock awoke, he was allowed to remain awake because John had finally been stabilized enough to be transferred into his room. This, of course, led to several battles of will, with both the nursing and medical staff teaming up against one Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Hardass. He demanded to be kept informed of every little change in routine and condition, suggested methods for improving treatment, and generally drove everyone crazy with his constant fussing over his husband.

 

As for John, he was kept on a morphine drip to keep the pain at bay. Sometimes he would murmur things in his sleep or have an occasional nightmare due to the effects of the drug, but, mostly, he just slept. When he was agitated, Sherlock would sit on the side of his bed, holding his hand and talking to him in a gentle, soothing voice until he had settled down again. Sometimes, the staff even found him sleeping in the same bed, his long limbs wrapped protectively around him.

 

The stronger John got, the less Sherlock fussed. He would discuss cases with John, even when John was just a little too sedated to understand them. He watched carefully whenever someone changed the dressings on his abdomen and back, and asked voluminous questions, especially about angle of travel and speed of projectile. This information was provided by Lestrade’s people, who had been at 221B since the shooting doing forensic work. Mrs. Hudson had been churning out tea and biscuits while pumping the technicians for information about “her boys”.

 

John was still inconsiderable pain when he moved, but he, eventually, became too restless to stay in bed without something to occupy his mind. When he felt his husband was strong enough, Sherlock decided it was time to broach the topic of the incident. John got there first.

 

“Okay, Sherlock, who did you piss off this time without telling me?” John asked, point-blank.

 

Sherlock drew back, affronted. “No one, John. I swear!”

 

John’s wide mouth stretched into a flat line. “Do I look like I believe that?”

 

Sherlock pursed his lips before speaking. “John, when we got married, you made me promise that I would never again withhold vital information from you. You even wrote it into our _wedding_ _vows_ , for God’s sake. I swear to you, _husband_ , that I have withheld _nothing_ from you. I can only surmise who might have done this, since I have been unable to do any first-hand investigation of my own. Lestrade’s troops are, by and large, moronic monkeys, traipsing all over the crime scene. I doubt I will find much that hasn’t been severely compromised by them.” He sighed, his shoulders slumping just a bit. “Lestrade told me that, if I hadn’t impulsively lifted you into the air like that, the bullet would have hit center mass of your chest. You would have been killed instantly. As it was, since I pulled your body upward and _backward_ , the bullet passed through your abdomen and into my side, a non-lethal shot.” Sherlock’s eyes hardened. “I take _extreme_ exception to someone trying to kill my husband.”

 

John’s large blue eyes narrowed suspiciously. “So, who do you suspect? I know you haven’t just left the investigating up to Scotland Yard. You’ve been meeting with the Network, haven’t you?”

 

After taking a deep breath through his nose, Sherlock nodded. “Yes, John, I have. You know my methods. It’s important I know the word on the street, and the word is not good. There’s a new ‘Moriarty’ in town, and he’s looking to make his reputation by taking _me_ out, and you along with me. There seems to be a bit of a grudge going on here since we eliminated _Jim_ Moriarty and his second-in-command…”

 

“My former wife,” John finished, the words bitter in his mouth.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, softly, before rubbing John’s cheek with the backs of his fingers. John turned his face into the caress and smiled self-deprecatingly. “What an arse I was, marrying her when I was in love with you. Talk about a slow-motion train wreck.”

 

“It’s over and done, _mon coeur_. Don’t keep flagellating yourself over it.” Sherlock soothed, touching a fingertip to John’s lips before withdrawing his hand. John lowered his eyes and nodded. Sherlock continued. “We need to formulate a plan to draw this new person out into the open where we can deal with him on _our_ terms. When the cabbie said that Moriarty was ‘more than a man’, I had assumed he had been speaking _metaphorically_ rather than in reality. It is a vast conspiracy, John. One Moriarty dies, another takes his place…”

 

John nodded again, then coughed. Sherlock eyed him with concern. “Are you alright, John? Do you need more rest?”

 

John coughed again, harder this time. “No, I think I’m okay, I’m just…feeling a bit…” He coughed again, reaching down to splint his healing wound with his hands to prevent incisional rupture. The cough became more violent, his inhalations more labored, while his color became sickly pale. “Sherlock, I think…” Another bout of coughing grasped him and wouldn’t let go. “Em…embolism…Sherlock. Doctor. Now,” he wheezed.

 

Sherlock was off the bed like a shot, disregarding his own pain, running down the hall to the nurses’ station, yelling for help…

 

>>>***<<<

 

A week later, there was a communication in the Personal section of **_The Guardian_**. It read:

 

Mr. M. You killed my dog. Meet at Cannery Warehouse for talk, alone, tomorrow 8p. SH

 

>>>***<<<

 

The entire place had an empty, hollow feel to it, very much like the feeling currently occupying Sherlock’s chest. It was dark and echoey, long abandoned.  The only lights visible were the ones leading from the front door to the entrance of the unlit room in which Sherlock currently resided. A long streamer of light fell from the door over his chair, leaving the rest of the room unlit.

 

Sherlock sat stretched out on an old, battered recliner, facing the door. He was tightly wrapped in his Belstaff to keep away the chill caused by so many broken windows. His eyes were reddened but they were still sharp and wary. His usual pallor looked positively healthy compared to his appearance tonight.

 

At the assigned hour, a black car drove up to the entrance of the building, and a man emerged. He paused outside the door, as if suspecting that someone was watching him, before moving inside. His men moved around the building and Sherlock could hear a couple of muffled gunshots and a cry of pain. He didn’t move from his chair or respond in any way.

 

The man walked into the room alone. He moved with a certain jaunty cockiness Sherlock found unappealing. He suppressed a sneer, just.

 

The new Mr. M was no improvement over the old one. He was dressed impeccably but with a certain brazen quality to it, as if he was trying to prove how cool and hip he was. Maybe he thought this would impress the underlings. Maybe he thought it would intimidate Sherlock. Sherlock doubted that it would do either.

 

“Ah, Mr Holmes!” he crowed, striking a rather flamboyantly nonchalant pose in the light, between the door and Sherlock’s chair. “What a pleasure to finally meet you! I’ve heard so much about you from my predecessor. He did have rather a ‘thing’ for you. Up close, I can see why.”

 

Sherlock snorted. “Jim Moriarty was insane and a psychopath who let his emotions run his brain instead of the other way around. I didn’t even have to dispose of him; he did it himself.”

 

Mr. M touched a finger to the tip of his chin with a mock-thoughtful look. “Yes, he did, didn’t he? And then that assassin woman was going to take over but you and your friend took care of her very neatly indeed, leaving the perfect void for me to slide into.” He giggled to himself, exhibiting a smile that was just a touch too snaky to be pleasant. “And now, here you are, sitting alone in a warehouse waiting for…what, Mr. Holmes? To kill me for the execution of your ‘pet’?”

 

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “My husband, actually. He died of complications from that wound. Your gunman botched the original job but still managed, in the end, to do the job. Still, he should be reprimanded for doing such shoddy work.”

 

Smirking, Mr. M stated, “Oh, don’t you worry about that. He got his appropriate…payment for that job. You’re right…he was sloppy. Should have predicted the unpredictable. _That’s_ what a good assassin does. And yet, Mr. Holmes,” Mr. M noted, wryly, “you don’t seem particularly upset by your husband’s death. Have you no heart, sir?”

 

A smile ticked up one corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “In truth, you saved me the trouble of doing it myself. John was becoming quite boring. After the wedding, he became clingy, wanting to know everything I was doing, with whom I was associating…he became a real _housefrau_ type. So tiresome. He was interfering with my many…side businesses, some of which you may have brushed up against.” The smile widened. “After all, being on the side of the angels can become _such_ a bore after a while. What’s the use in having a brilliant brain if you can’t have a little _fun_ with it?”

 

Mr. M had been eyeing Sherlock suspiciously until this part of the conversation. “So, what you are saying, Mr. H, is that you have decided to dabble in the ‘Consulting Criminal’ genre? That seems so… _unlike_ you.” His eyes squinted almost closed. “What game are you playing at, Mr. Holmes?”

 

Sherlock crossed his elevated ankles and leaned his head back against the bolster of the chair, the picture of repose. The smile hadn’t changed. “Why, the same game as you, Mr. M. Being clever. Doing things that other people can’t do and getting away with it. In fact, I was considering making you an offer…”

 

“Now _that’s_ bullshit!” Mr. M. exploded, all attempts at being suave abandoned. “You would never go so far in that direction. _That_ was the main thing that Jim enjoyed about his games with you. You were so _predictable_.” He took a step forward in an attempt at appearing menacing. Sherlock snorted in derision. “I know you set this up as a trap for me and my seconds, but you overplayed your hand. My men have taken out all your lookouts and I personally shot your brother Mycroft with _my own weapon_. Right in the heart. The look on his face as he fell was priceless.”

 

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Mycroft? In the heart? Bad choice, if I may say so. Of all the places you could have shot him, _that_ would be the one that would do the least amount of damage.” He chuckled darkly. “By the way, are you _certain_ you got _all_ his men? Mycroft has the ability to call upon multitudes when the mood suits him.”

 

“Yes, damn you,” Mr M hissed. He was obviously tiring of this game. So much the better, as far as Sherlock was concerned. Anger causes mistakes, blurs out logic. Mr. M half-turned and yelled down the hall. “Chauncey! Edgar! Get your arses in here right now.” He turned back to Sherlock, delicately pulling a shiny Glock out of his waistband. “We are going to finish this matter with you, right here, right now. Whatever your game, I still hold the winning piece,” he smirked, displaying the Glock so that the light glinted off it.

 

A set of casual footsteps approached from the corridor and two figures entered into the room. One looked extremely familiar. Sherlock perked up. “Ah! Brother dear! This gentleman claimed that he had killed you with a heartshot! I _told_ him it was a bad idea…”

 

Mycroft smiled cynically. “Yes, you _would_ say that, wouldn’t you, brother mine?”

 

Mr. M whipped his head around and gaped at Mycroft Holmes, hale, hearty, but looking a bit annoyed. “I told Lestrade that this bullet-proof blood vest was too much, but he’s obviously taken lessons in dramatics from you, Sherlock. Now a good suit has been ruined by this fake blood.”

 

“Not to mention the bullet hole…”

 

“Yes, I should have worn one of my lesser suits, I suppose. Ah, well, it was worth it all in the end to capture this one,” he said, pointing his umbrella at Mr. M.

 

The other figure lounged against the doorway, silver hair gleaming in the harsh light. He slid his eyes toward Mycroft. “Not my fault you don’t know how to dress for a stakeout,” Lestrade retorted, dryly.

 

Sherlock sat up on his recliner, pushing the footrest down so he could lean his elbows on his knees as he regarded Mr. M coolly. “You see, Mr. M…uh, what, exactly, is your real name anyway?” When no answer was forthcoming, he continued. “Unimportant, just as you are. You see, I posited that, since Jim and his little friend had been done away with so recently, no one had actually been groomed to take their places. The void would be filled quickly, not by the most qualified candidate but, rather, by the most ambitious and, shall we say, least moral of the eligible ‘ladies–in-waiting’.”

 

Mr. M’s face hardened. Obviously, he hadn’t liked the analogy, but that didn’t bother Sherlock.  He blithely continued.

 

“We prepared this little get-together to smoke out the next Moriarty, and here you are. We set it up so that you could take out a few minor players on your way in and kill Mycroft himself, if you so desired. Let you feel like a _real_ badass,” He smiled facetiously at his brother. “A shame it wasn’t for real. I would have gotten your share of the estate when Mum and Dad die. Finances, you know.”

 

Mycroft smiled sarcastically back at him. “As if you’ve ever been at a financial impasse, Sherlock. Your allowance is quite generous.”

 

Lestrade just wordlessly raised an eyebrow.

 

“ _Enough of this_!” Mr M snarled. “I came here to finish the job my bungling assistant couldn’t accomplish, and I will!” Before anyone could cross the room to stop him, he brought his glock in line with Sherlock’s chest, his finger tightening on the trigger.

 

A gunshot cut through the air. Everyone froze.

 

Sherlock watched impassionately as a bullet punched its way through Mr. M’s gut. The man looked down dumbly at the growing dark stain before his knees buckled and he dropped gracelessly to the cement floor, barking his knees and elbows as he landed. The gun fell from his twitching fingers. Mycroft sauntered over, picked it up through the trigger guard with the ferrule of his umbrella, and presented it to Lestrade. Lestrade accepted the gift with a mock bow and, after pulling out a handkerchief to wrap it in, winked at him. Mycroft smiled and winked back. Sherlock made grabbed his throat and made retching sounds.

 

“What…what the hell… _shit_ , _how_ …” Mr. M babbled as he tried to regain his feet, without success. “I can’t stand… _I can’t feel my fucking legs_!” he bellowed in impotent rage and shock.

 

The other three men smiled down at him with satisfaction. Sherlock leaned in and said, “Oh, by the way, one of those things I like to do that’s clever, that I can get away with? It’s lying. John Watson is very much alive and requested—no, _demanded_ \--despite a mild pulmonary infection, that he be involved in our little soiree here tonight. He’s in the building across the way, just the perfect position to take you out, if necessary and remain invisible otherwise. I take it, from the placement of his bullet, that this is his “tit-for-tat” moment. Off-hand, I would say that he shot you in the mid- to lower-thoracic vertebrae, rendering you paralyzed from the waist down. A nice way of keeping you from making a nuisance of yourself trying to escape from Mycroft’s ever-vigilant care.”

 

Mr. M’s eyes widened in understanding. “Shit,” he whispered. “Jim underestimated you, big time. You are one scary bastard.”

 

Sherlock stood with a slight hitch. The wound in his side was still sore. “I’m not the one you should be afraid of, Mr. M. _I_ didn’t shoot you. If John had wanted you dead, we’d be wheeling you out of here in a trash bin.”

 

Leaving Mr. M. to ponder his fate under Mycroft’s not-so-tender mercies, Sherlock strode over to Lestrade. “How is John? Is he all right?”

 

Lestrade, who had been on the mobile, nodded and covered the mouthpiece. “Yeah, yeah, he’s fine. I sent an ambulance over there, sirens and lights off, to take him back to the hospital. Don’t want him to bleed out on us like you almost did when Mary shot you.”

 

Sherlock shrugged. His own life was still of little importance to him, but John’s life…that was another matter altogether. John’s life was _everything_. He patted Lestrade on the shoulder as he exited the room to attend to his husband.

 

>>>***<<<

 

“Caught him, did we?” John wheezed, the oxygen cannula resting securely under his nose. He looked pale, but satisfied.

 

“ _Bien sur, mon mari_ ,” Sherlock purred as he nuzzled John’s throat, laying a kiss on the left side of his neck. John squirmed.

 

“Take it easy, love. I’m still a bit sore from the recoil of my gun, among other things.”

 

“Well, you were the one who insisted you had to come along to protect me. I assure you, Lestrade’s men…”

 

John lifted a finger to stop him. “Do not have my emotional investment in keeping you alive. Besides,” he grinned. “It feels good to get some of your own back. That bampot paid someone to kill me. I put him in a wheelchair for life. Figure it all balances out.”

 

Sherlock turned somber. “I suppose, but if he _had_ killed you, I would have made _quite_ sure he didn’t leave that building with a pulse. And I would have made him _strongly_ regret his actions well before that.”

 

“Silly lad,” John murmured fondly.

 

Moving carefully so as to avoid John’s wound, Sherlock draped himself across his husband’s body and buried his face into John’s neck. “Nothing must happen to you, John. I am nothing without you.”

 

“Wrong,” John stated firmly. “You are Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. You will go one and you will keep doing what you do best. Anything less, and I will return from the depths of hell to remind you of it.”

 

Sherlock smiled and shook his head sadly. “No need, John. I’ll be there with you.”

 

“NO!” John yelled, sitting up so suddenly it caused Sherlock to bound backwards on the bed. He winced and grabbed his wound, his breath short with pain.

 

Sherlock reached for him. “John! God, don’t do that! You’ll…”

 

“Oh _bugger that_ , Sherlock! Don’t you _ever_ think of killing yourself again, you hear me? Not for me!” John railed.

 

“Then you must take care of yourself and exercise caution, John. John Watson lives means Sherlock lives,” Sherlock pointed out.

 

John gave Sherlock a look that shot daggers. “That’s _not_ what the hashtag was. Stop rewriting history. And I didn’t _arrange_ to be shot, you know.”

 

“I know,” Sherlock replied, softly. “This time, it was out of our control. But, in the future,” he caressed the side of John’s face as he helped him to recline again, “you must be aware that I will not let you go somewhere that I, myself, would not go. You’re my partner. My…soulmate.”

 

“Soulmate, huh?” John smiled, then sighed. “I know I can’t stop you doing something stupid if I’m dead, but…just…think it over for a while first, okay? Like, for about a year or so? Just to be sure.”

 

Sherlock leaned in to kiss John’s forehead. “No guarantees, but I will consider your request _, mon cher_.”

 

John smirked. “You know I love it when you speak French.”

 

_“Mais oui!”_


End file.
